Prophecy
by resile
Summary: Buffy & Harry Potter crossover oneshot. Set after OOtP in HP time and after season 7 in BtVS time. Dumbledore thinks he has found someone who can really understand Harry's position. He asks the slayer to talk to him, in hopes that some empathy will help the boy.


Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I know Joss Whedon is a-okay with the fanfic, but in case Ms. Rowling isn't: Sorry, lady! It's just an expression of my looove. :)

Feedback is welcome, please read and review. I don't normally write fanfic, but it just wanted to get out, so I wrote this. :)

Aside from that, I think I fixed some minor errors that were in here (thank you, Xen84, I didn't realize that the info for how long Buffy was gone was so readily available in a quote, but once you mentioned it, I remembered the conversation.) but if you spot something, please let me know. I'm also still tinkering with and am not entirely familiar with how to use the website, so forgive me on that if need be.

&&&&&

Harry had been feeling down. No, that was an understatement. Harry had been feeling depressed, alone, despondent... He had just led his friends on a wild goose chase directly into the hands of the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Worse, he had gotten his godfather… his guardian… the closest thing to a father that he had ever experienced (or, at least, could remember experiencing) killed by stupidly succumbing to the manipulations of an evil genius within his untrained mind.

As if this wasn't enough, Harry had then marched back to Dumbledore's office, trashed the place, and screamed his head off. Harry felt he was entitled to a bit of a vent, given all he had been through. Or, rather, though such a thought didn't consciously present itself in his mind (his grief and anger were all that he could process), somewhere within, that anger formed itself into a ball of destruction that Harry felt more than at liberty to unleash. It was at this point that Dumbledore presented the icing on the cake at Harry's pain party: the prophecy.

"_Either must die at the hands of the other for neither can live while the other survives."_

Excellent. So, this battle he was fighting? He was going to die fighting it unless he beat some incredible odds.

Thus, Harry was feeling _down_. In the weeks following the incident at the Ministry, he had been shunted off to the Dursley's again and, despite assurances that he would be frequently checked on, he was, quite thoroughly, alone.

Harry was surprised, therefore, when a fluffy, brown barn owl tapped at his window. Fighting to muster up the energy to pull himself out of bed and towards the window's latch, Harry swung his legs over the side of the mattress, plopped them on the floor, and stood. He let out an involuntary sigh—he'd been doing that a lot, lately—and allowed the owl access to his room.

The owl flew swiftly into his room, perching on his bed frame, and earning an annoyed glance from Hedwig, who had been sleeping nearby in her cage. Harry, failing to muster up the excited curiosity that he normally felt when receiving a letter during the holidays, untied the note from the Owl's leg and hastily grabbed a small treat from Hedwig's stash. Hedwig hooted her annoyance, this time, but Harry ignored her and gave the brown owl his reward for a successful delivery.

Harry squinted in the semi-darkness as he opened the letter.

"_Harry,_

_I have been concerned about you since the incident in May. In my constant endeavors to meet new, interesting people—_

(Harry snorted. The subterfuge for efforts toward recruitment in the Order of the Phoenix was shoddy at best. Still, Harry continued.)

_--I have met someone who, apart from being a great asset, may be of service to you. She has dealt with many experiences similar to yours and has expressed a desire to meet with you, for a chat, if you are willing. Owl me back your answer with Bartleby, he will know where to deliver your response._

_Yours in earnest,_

_Albus Dumbledore"_

Harry blinked, looked at his hands, and then blinked again. Who could possibly understand what he felt? Who could _possibly_ understand what it felt like to be condemned by a prophecy? To be a dead man walking? To know that you must die at the hands of someone greater in skill and strength, a master at his craft, however dark and sordid that craft may be? For, surely, Harry would die. He was certain of this. And no one, he was sure, could possibly understand such a thing.

Still, he thought, as lonely as he was at Privet Drive, it might grant him a day's respite if he agreed to this meeting. He wondered with a brief flash of excitement, which quickly turned to dread and despair, deep in the pit of his stomach (for that was always what happened to pleasant feelings, as of late), whether he might see Dumbledore or Remus if he were to accept this offer. Would he, just maybe, see Hermione or Ron? Would meet them at Grimmauld Place? A sudden pang of guilt coursed through him like lightning and he felt tears spring unbidden to his eyes. Furiously, he wiped them away and tried to erase the picture of Sirius, eyes vacant, mouth still grinning, falling through the veil. _No, _He thought. _Not now._

In an effort to distract himself, Harry took out a pen and paper (his quills and parchment were locked in his trunk with the rest of his school things), and quickly wrote an answer.

_If you think it will help, I guess that will be all right._

That was all he wrote and he quickly tied the note to Bartleby's foot, giving the owl another treat before releasing him through the opened window.

Harry settled himself under the covers and closed his eyes, though sleep did not come. Instead, he saw images of Cedric, Sirius, and his parents playing constantly through his mind.

&&&&&&&

Buffy Summers toyed absentmindedly with a stake in her hand as she sat in the office of one, Albus Dumbledore. Although she was interested in the world of wizardry that had suddenly been unraveled when an owl mysteriously rapped at the window in Giles' flat one day, the idea of fighting yet another big bad was just a bit… tiring. What was this, now? The 7th? The 8th? Did the nerds count as a big bad?

_Definitely not._ She thought.

Across from her sat the headmaster, gazing at her through his half-moon spectacles with what could only be considered a thoughtful look on his face. What, exactly, the man was thinking of, Buffy did not know. What she did know was that, while her spidey senses were most definitely tingling around this particular geriatric, he was definitely on the side of good.

"So." Buffy said, continuing to twirl Mr. Pointy in rather a graceful and difficult looking manner. Dumbledore silently mused that he probably would not be able to do the same without a fair bit of magic.

"So, Miss Summers," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling.

Buffy, while respectful, was not one who was particularly fond of the cryptic. She'd had enough of that for one lifetime.

"So, I'm here," Buffy reiterated. "I've left my girls, who, by the way, are doing an excellent job in training, as well as my friends who, while we're at it, have done an excellent job rebuilding the watcher's council. And here I am, out of London, through a chimney in some green fire, wondering why I'm-- is that a phoenix?"

Dumbledore craned his head toward the bird, which was resting on his perch and looking about ready to burn yet again.

"Ah, yes. Fawkes. Indeed, he is."

Buffy couldn't help her amusement at Dumbledore's quiet admission, but that didn't mean she wasn't annoyed. She waited, knowing that he would eventually fill the silence with his explanation.

"Well, Miss Summers, as you know, our world has seen the rise of a dark wizard. The darkest the world has ever known, in fact. He has been torturing and killing wizards and muggles alike—that is, non-magical people. We feel that you, as the slayer, are an invaluable asset to the fight against Lord Voldemort. This, coupled with the recent (rather impressive) magic that your friend, Willow, was it? accomplished--- now gives the world hundreds of fighters against this man."

Buffy narrowed her eyes at the man. "So, what? We're weapons to you?"

"No, no. Most certainly not. What we are hoping—and by we, I mean the resistance that has taken to calling itself the Order of the Phoenix—is that you will help us protect the innocents that are being caught in the crossfire of this war. Your extraordinary strength, the strength of your girls, has immense potential against the army that Voldemort is creating. Giants, inferi—zombies, you might say—and vampires, of course… they are all joining in his crusade. This fight is not just ours; it is yours, as well."

Buffy took a minute to wrap a tendril of hair behind her ear, to chew her lip. She was not convinced that the man didn't think of her and the other slayers as mere weapons. But he had a point. Armies of vampires and zombies and—goodness, giants? Yes, they most definitely did fall into the jurisdiction of the slayer. Make that, slayers. Many slayers.

"Fair enough," Buffy conceded.

"There is more." Dumbledore replied, leaning forward onto his desk and entwining his fingers. "I am sure that Rupert has filled you in on the story of Voldemort's history?"

"Big bad, killing people, lots of fear, brought down by a baby? Recently resurrected somehow and itching to make up lost time of inflicting wiggins?" She paused for a second. "Major wiggins."

Blinking at the strange word, Dumbledore nodded.

"There is more to it. Harry is the only survivor of the killing curse that Voldemort had used, prior, to kill countless victims. Harry's survival directly coincided with Voldemort's downfall. Voldemort has since seized every opportunity to attack Harry, both due to his injured pride and to a belief that Harry is the only one capable of defeating him."

Buffy sighed, "But he's a kid, right? Giles said he's, what, sixteen?" She thought of Dawn for a moment, remembering the way that Glory had ruthlessly pursued her sister, the key. She thought of herself, of how young she was the first time that a big bad had come for her. Why is it always children?

"Harry is sixteen in a few days time, yes. He is remarkably mature and level headed for his age. I, myself, was nowhere near such a level of maturity at that age…" Dumbledore trailed off and Buffy swore she could sense sadness in his eyes for a minute, but when he glanced back at her, it was gone.

"However," he continued, "Harry has recently undergone some devastating challenges, the most recent of which resulted in the death of his godfather. I think that, apart from your capacity as the head slayer, you might be of great use to Harry. As… someone who understands what it is like, to be hunted. To lose someone."

Buffy sighed again, remembering her losses, and the wish that she had known someone that could have understood. She remembered the certainty that no one could ever understand what it was like… To die, to sacrifice a lover, to sacrifice oneself… To die again… To come back… any of it.

"I'll help him."

The man smiled at her. "Thank you," he said, and she felt the honesty in his tone.

"Then I ask," he continued, "that you return tomorrow, at noon, by the same method that you traveled today. Rupert has more of the floo powder and he will instruct you again on its usage, if need be."

At this, the slayer stood. "Alright, then. Tomorrow it is."

&&&&&&&

Harry read Dumbledore's response again, turning the paper over and over in his hands, as if it would reveal something else.

"_Please visit Mrs. Figg tomorrow at noon. She will provide further instruction."_

The time was, Harry noted, 11:45, so he pulled himself out of bed once again and ventured down the stairs. He was grateful that the Dursleys had chosen that particular day to go on a shopping outing for Dudley who, Harry was sure, needed nothing that was about to be purchased for him. He pondered whether their absence was a coincidence as he walked to his neighbor's house.

He paused at the door, readying himself to knock, when it swung open. There stood none other than Arabella Figg.

"Harry! Come in, come in. What time is it," she glanced at a clock on the wall, "Goodness! Eleven fifty five! You must be going, come on!"

She ushered him into her living room where, not surprisingly, there was a roaring flame in the fireplace.

"Er…" was all that Harry managed to get out before she impatiently shoved a handful of floo powder into his hand.

"Dumbledore's office, yes?" She instructed.

"Er… Sure." Harry responded and took a deep breath before repeating those words, loudly and _clearly_ (he did not need a repeat of that particular incident), and jumping into the fire.

As always, Harry stumbled out the other side. It was a wonder how someone who managed to be so graceful on a broomstick and in just about any horrendous situation could be so utterly clumsy in his floo landings.

Once he steadied himself, he surveyed his surroundings. First, he noted Fawkes, who, Harry thought, looked ready for burning again. Then, he noted Dumbledore, who appeared to be rising from a sitting position to greet him. Last, he noticed a petite blonde woman, sitting in one of the large chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk.

"Ah, Harry. Excellent. Glad to see that you met no trouble on your journey!" The headmaster came towards him and warmly patted him on the back, noting the dark circles under the boy's eyes and the pronounced weight loss that seemed particularly more noticeable than the usual results of his stays with the Dursleys.

Not knowing what to say, Harry merely nodded.

"This," Dumbledore continued, "is Buffy Summers. She is a vampire slayer."

Buffy raised an eyebrow, nonplussed at being outed, but slightly defensive all the same.

"A vampire slayer?" Harry repeated. Clearly, The Chosen One held no meaning to him.

At this, Buffy stood, walking closer to the boy and reciting, by way of introduction, "In every generation there is a chosen one," she started, clearly a well-practiced rendition for her, "she alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. Or, well, she alone _did_ stand against them. Now there are actually a lot of us."

Harry looked lost but visibly flinched at the words "chosen one." She ignored this and, instead, continued her explanation at Dumbledore's nod of approval.

"Well, here's the deal. Way back since who-knows-when, there has always been the slayer. Not so much every generation, more like… when one dies, the next one is called. It's always a girl, and she fights all the big bads and slays all the vamps to protect innocent people. Then, well… there were two of us, which is sort of a story in itself, and now… my friend Willow invoked some bad ass magicks to turn all the potential slayers into actual slayers. So, the slayer used to fight alone until her death, and now we've got a whole bunch of slayers to fight together."

Harry glanced between the new arrival and his headmaster, who motioned for them to take their seats. They did.

"Sir," Harry began, "sorry, but… er… I don't see what this has to do with…" He trailed off.

"Well, Harry, you see, Buffy and her slayers have agreed to help us in fighting Lord Voldemort. The slayer, or, rather, _slayers_, have superhuman strength and speed that will be indispensable against the army that Voldemort is assembling. But the reason I've brought you and Buffy together lies in the many commonalities that I've noticed as I've looked over her watcher's diaries. I think she might be someone you could talk to, in other words."

"I'm sorry—watcher's diaries?" Harry parroted.

Buffy glanced at Harry. "Oh. Yeah. Usually, every slayer has a watcher. She who slays, he who watches, you know. He helps her with the research and often provides a cookie. And he… or she, I guess, also trains the slayer, and keeps a record of what happens to her. I guess that's how you know my history?" She directed this last question at Dumbledore, who nodded. "I should really keep a watch on who Giles hands his diaries to. Did you read the part about how he couldn't understand a thing I said?"

Ignoring the joke, Dumbledore pressed on. "Buffy, Harry… I am going to leave the two of you alone to talk." His eyes seemed ambivalent between their normal twinkle and a sense of graveness. "Perhaps prophecy is a good place to start." At this he rose, ignoring the widening eyes of both parties as he gracefully exited the room.

&&&&&&&

"So, prophecies." Buffy said, filling the air, which had become stiflingly silent at the professor's use of the word. "What can you say about prophecies?"

Harry, who had become noticeably stiffer, spoke: "I don't want to talk about this." The dark circles under his eyes became more apparent with the added tension in his muscles and she wondered if her own posture was as bad as his. She straightened up.

"Well, I can start. I've heard a couple, myself. Wanna hear?" She figured she had better make an effort. Thinking of Dawn, she tried not to acknowledge how hard it is to break through with these God-forsaken teens.

Harry shrugged and Buffy decided to continue.

"Alright, here's a good one. So, there was this really bad vampire. His name was Nest, but everyone just called him the Master. Perma-wrinkle face, fruit punch mouth, so not a looker. He was trapped underground in this church that had caved in after an earthquake. And, as I'm sure you could imagine, he wanted out. So, that's when Giles tells me… Well, not me. He told my _boyfriend_, and I was there to overhear, that…"

She struggled to find the memory of the exact words, wanting to be precise.

"He said that there was a prophecy in the Codex about me. That the codex was never wrong. It was 'as plain as day,'" She trailed off for a second and, a second later, found her footing, "He said that I was going to face the Master, and I was going to die."

At this, Harry sharply looked up. "What?" This was hitting too close to home.

"So, at first, I freak. I was sixteen, I was so not ready to die. But eventually I realize that I have to stop the Master from rising, even if it means dying in the process. So I go down to his caved-in church, in a really kickin' dress that got ruined, and try to fight him."

Harry's eyes now met hers with a fire that she hadn't seen behind them before. "What happened." It was not a question.

"Well, that's the funny part. Prophecies are tricky. That's what he said to me. Turns out, if I wouldn't have gone down there, he couldn't have risen. He bit me, left me in a pool to drown, and was free. And I died."

"You died?"

"Only for a minute… My friend Xander showed up just in time for the good that is CPR. Then, I killed the crap out of the Master."

Buffy glanced at Harry, who was looking down at his hands.

"What was it like?"

"Dying? That time, I couldn't tell you. I wasn't gone very long."

"That time? Have there been others?" He raised his eyes to her, joking.

"Just one."

He waited for her to elaborate. He hoped she would.

"Well, this is a totally different sort of deal. There was this hellgod named Glory. She was looking for a key that would erase the barrier between her dimension and ours… As it turns out, the key, which had been a big ball of energy, was given human form and sent to me."

At Harry's confused look, she continued.

"They made her human, put her under my care, and changed everyone's memories to incorporate her into our lives. Dawn. My sister."

He still looked confused, but she supposed that anyone would have trouble digesting that particular explanation and decided to proceed.

"So, we tried out best to keep Glory from finding out where the key was, who she was. In the end, they had her, and the link was opened between the dimensions. The only way to close it was to stop the blood flow. I really _hate_ when that happens," Buffy said with a certain venom in her voice that Harry couldn't understand.

"But I sealed the barrier instead. I jumped in the portal, sealed it with my blood, stopped the dimensions from bleeding together. That time I was gone for about five months."

"Five _months?_ Then how did you come back?"

She could tell that she was beginning to break through his shell by his desire for the completion of the tale.

"Well, my friends brought me back. They thought I was in a hell dimension and that the death was unnatural."

"Were you?"

At this, Buffy paused, gathering her bearings. Harry noticed that this seemed difficult for her to talk about, despite the show she was putting on to the contrary. He respected her show of emotion; it had been a long time since he had seen someone genuinely in the grips of real feeling.

"No." She said, simply. She stopped, unable to clarify further, but Harry understood. "It's not bad. It's fast. It's nothing at all." She concluded, lost in her thoughts for a moment.

Harry sat for a moment, thinking about what had just been shared with him. She had been condemned to death too, then. She understood. She walked right into her death and met it head on, twice. He could not begin to imagine what he would feel like at the moment of his confrontation with Voldemort. He was unsure if he could meet it with any bravery, meet it at all.

"I'm the only one that can defeat Voldemort." Harry said, suddenly.

"Yeah. That happens sometimes." Buffy agreed.

"There was a prophecy, f-for me, too. It said that I'm the chosen one, that neither can live while the other survives. One of us has to kill the other. So that means I'm the only one who can kill him, but…"

"But there's no guarantee. Yeah." Buffy nodded and Harry saw real empathy in her expression.

"I didn't think anyone could understand." Harry admitted. He felt lighter at the admission, lighter than he had since Sirius' death, and for a mere moment, he didn't see the vacant eyes falling behind the veil.

"Most people couldn't," Buffy agreed. "Maybe it's a chosen one thing."


End file.
